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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24637447">Platonic</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka'>yeaka</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Space Force</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Ficlet, M/M, Swearing But Not Really Swearing Just Tony</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-06-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-06-10</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 01:35:53</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,255</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24637447</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Mark and Adrian consider the optics.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>General Mark R. Naird/Dr. Adrian Mallory</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>25</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>136</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Platonic</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><ul class="associations">

        <li>
          Translation into Русский available: 
            <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/29045886">Платонически</a> by <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/pilfer_rinse/pseuds/pilfer_rinse">pilfer_rinse</a>, <a href="https://archiveofourown.org/users/fandom_AllSpace_2020/pseuds/WTF%20All%20Space%202021">WTF All Space 2021 (fandom_AllSpace_2020)</a>
        </li>


    </ul><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Disclaimer: I don’t own Space Force or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The text simply reads <i>‘We need to talk’</i>, which could mean just about anything, but Adrian’s vainly hoping it means he’s about to hear a much deserved apology. He’s not convinced enough to lighten his step. He knows he’s marching with the stiff posture of a man about to bludgeon another man to death, which is far too often the norm outside Mark’s office—Brad barely even looks up as Adrian storms through. One look at the lumbering Neanderthal stationed outside Mark’s doors, and they’re being opened for him—no more of that <i>ID</i> nonsense. At least those few soldiers directly in Adrian’s path seem to have finally realized that his input is not only just as, but infinitely more important than, the military generals above them. </p><p>The doors smoothly close behind him, and Adrian walks right to the edge of the couch stationed squarely at the back of the office, tucked neatly beneath the wide windows that look out onto the dusty valley around their base. Mark’s perched near the middle of the couch, posture just as exacting as Adrian’s. Perhaps he’s finally realized that Adrian—as usual—is completely correct, and he’s aching to make amends.</p><p>Except that their squabble was base-related, so if Adrian wanted to end it, he’d likely do so ‘officially,’ seated at his desk. Adrian hovers beside the couch and crosses his arms, waiting for the <i>sorry</i>s to come rolling off Mark’s tongue. </p><p>Mark waits a few thunderous seconds, then squints, then tilts his head and haltingly asks, “Are you going to sit, or...?”</p><p>“That depends,” Adrian instantly counters. “Are you going to compensate the science department for funds that were supposedly <i>impossible</i> to secure despite the <i>wardrobe department</i>, of all things, collecting a sizable raise?”</p><p>Mark’s head drops. He sighs, every bit as aggravating as he was four hours ago when they yelled this across the complex. “Adrian, I explained to you already, we need our boots to be <i>American made</i>—” </p><p>“Which I agree with, given the reduced carbon emissions and increased ethical assurance involved in locally sourcing things, except that you literally told me there was <i>no money left</i>—”</p><p>“Yes, okay, I get it, you’re upset—”</p><p>“I’m upset insofar as the entire—”</p><p>Mark’s head snaps up, and he rushes to: “Could you just sit down?”</p><p>Adrian exhales louder than he needs to. He doesn’t <i>want</i> to sit with Mark, no matter how many good times they’ve spent curled up in each other’s orbit right on those very cushions, but Mark gives him that despicably pathetic look that corrodes his resolve. Against his better judgment, Adrian takes his seat. It seems to relax Mark’s posture by a few infinitesimal degrees.</p><p>“We need to talk.”</p><p>“Yes, your text implied that much.”</p><p>Mark rolls his eyes at the dripping sarcasm but doesn’t rumble on. He does leave his mouth open suspiciously long, and then he tries vaguely gesturing, and it takes several fumbling attempts before he finally blurts, “We need to be less... <i>gay.</i>”</p><p>Adrian blinks. He adjusts his glasses to be sure he’s really talking to Mark Naird and not Fuck Tony or one of the other dozen halfwits currently employed by the U.S. government. As calmly as he can, Adrian explains, “I can’t simply <i>stop</i> being homosexual, Mark—”</p><p>“No, no, no,” Mark hurriedly justifies, eyes going wide as though he’s only just realized how incredibly ignorant that was. “No, I don’t mean it like that, of course I completely respect your personal life—”</p><p>Adrian dryly interjects, “Do you?”</p><p>“—But I meant, no, with... with <i>each other</i>, the two of us need to be less...” Again, the useless fumbling. He’s clearly searching for a better word than ‘gay’ and can’t find it. </p><p>In Adrian’s younger days, he might’ve gotten up, fetched the nearest glass of water, and returned to splash it all over Mark, inevitably ruining his own career. Working with the military has at least given him a greater sense of patience in the face of stupidity. </p><p>He leans back into the couch, trying to relax himself, and slowly explains, “Given the environment you’ve been in, I suppose it’s only natural that you would have such fragile masculinity that you’d feel threatened by two adult men sharing a friendship, but—”</p><p>“No, God, not me,” Mark’s face scrunches up, then drops into his hands. This obviously isn’t an easy conversation for him either. At the moment, Adrian’s not feeling particularly charitable with pity. When Mark looks up again, he turns sharply to Adrian, as though forcing himself to connect their eyes like a pair of star crossed lovers in a badly written play. “This isn’t coming from me. I happen to have a great deal of respect for our friendship. I love our friendship. I love yo—oh, God, not like that...” It’s almost laughable. Adrian could jump in and rescue him but instead lets him flounder. “Look, it’s not my fault, it’s that idiot... it’s Fuck Tony... he says...” Adrian doesn’t particularly care what Fuck Tony says. Then Mark babbles all at once, “Peoplethinkwe’rethedadsofthebase.”</p><p>“Excuse me?”</p><p>Mark eyes the ceiling, takes a deep breath, and repeats slower, “People think we’re the dads of the base.”</p><p>“Ah,” tumbles out of Adrian’s mouth as though he understands, though he doesn’t. </p><p>“This has <i>nothing</i> to do with me, obviously I value you and I appreciate that we’ve grown so close, but Erin said that Duncan said that he overheard several officers complaining about our earlier...”</p><p>Adrian can’t resist offering, “Lover’s spat?”</p><p>Mark shoots him a glare and rolls on. “Our <i>fight.</i> And apparently, those officers were distressed about ‘their dads fighting again.’ As in the two of <i>us</i>. And apparently Fuck Tony thought it was a good marketing concept—would make the base seem more <i>friendly</i>, he said, like this is some kind of daycare! Except POTUS—”</p><p>“Is a homophobic imbecile with the most fragile masculinity of all?”</p><p>“<i>Anyway</i>,” Mark loudly says over him, which isn’t <i>quite</i> objecting to the statement. “The point is that we just need to be more... conscious. Of our relationship. And the way it appears to people.”</p><p>“Of course, Mark.”</p><p>Mark gives him an incredibly grateful look, right up until he drops his hand on Mark’s knee. On any other occasion, it would be a perfectly normal gesture. Mark’s even slipped his arm around Adrian’s shoulders once or twice, and perhaps they’ve shared a glass after a particularly grueling session with their incredibly incompetent higher ups. But in the moment, Adrian doesn’t have to wear a shit-eating grin to make his protest known. He’s not five years old and doesn’t act like it. He just makes it clear when <i>Mark</i> is acting like it. </p><p>Mark squints and carefully asks, “Is that a friendly knee-squeeze, or are you doing this on purpose?”</p><p>“Perfectly friendly.” He hadn’t actually squeezed. But he does at the suggestion, just to watch Mark’s nose fidget in irritation. Almost saccharinely polite, Adrian asks, “May I go now?”</p><p>Mark nods his head curtly and answers, “Dismissed,” even though he knows Adrian hates it when he’s treated like a soldier. </p><p>“Very well, then.” Adrian climbs off the couch, straightens his jacket, and swiftly ducks down to peck Mark’s cheek. As he rises again and leaves, he calls, “I’ll talk to you later, honey.”</p><p>“<i>Adrian!</i>”</p><p>Adrian doesn’t slam the door on his way out, but he does have to suppress a wriggling smile at Mark screaming his name, and maybe it does put a bit more of a spring in his step than usual.</p>
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